Clandestine (8 page)

Suddenly, gunfire cracked sharply through the woods, followed by the frightened whinny of a horse and the loud jangle of a harness.

But it was the sound of a woman screaming in terror which sent Marc sprinting up the lane.

Chapter 5

T
he echoing gunshot shattered the peaceful calm, startling Kit. The bullet ricocheted right over the top of the gig, causing her to jump and lose her grip on the reins.

But even more critically, the flying bullet spooked her horse. The poor gelding flinched in his harness and then took off at a run. The sudden movement, combined with Kit’s own slack hold, tore the reins entirely from her hands.

With a terrified scream, Kit clung to the frame of the gig as it hurtled down the lane, watching the driving leathers bounce uselessly on the ground behind the galloping horse. No way to retrieve them.

The lane extended straight ahead for the moment, crossing over a small bridge. But beyond that, the road curved sharply to the right, and the horse showed no signs of slowing down. At her current pace, there was no way the gig would make the turn without toppling.

Holding on desperately to the bone-jarring carriage, her options quickly dwindled to just two less-than-ideal choices. She could jump from the runaway gig and hope she wasn’t too injured. Or she could stay in the carriage and pray the horse calmed before the curve. Which given the poor thing’s frantic pace, seemed unlikely.

The gig clattered over the bridge, the fateful bend in the road looming closer and closer. Jumping looked more and more like the better idea. At least that way she could
choose
where she fell.

It just figured she would (finally!) see Daniel only to be crushed to death under a runaway carriage. Given everything she had been through in the last month, she refused to have it all end like this.

Kit tried to assess how fast she was truly going. Could she release the gig long enough to gather her dress in one hand before leaping out? She didn’t want her skirts to snag, dragging her underneath the carriage instead of away from it.

Staring along the left side of the road, she was debating whether grass or mud would make for a better landing, when a man burst from the bare trees next to her horse, running full tilt.

She caught the general impression of a billowing caped greatcoat and dark, curly hair as the man came alongside the horse. Effortlessly, he grasped the harness and launched himself onto the animal’s back in one smooth motion, wrapping his arms around the beast’s neck and grabbing the reins. Leaning backward, the man pulled on the reins, gradually calming the terrified horse. Stopping its frantic gallop.

Kit gasped. Astonished. It had all been so fluid, done with such seeming ease.

The entire scene was surreal, like some trick from a traveling gypsy circus. Maybe the man was a gypsy himself, come to think of it.

Kit could only stare as the gig slowed and then came to a stop right before the dangerous turn in the road.

All in all, the entire incident had lasted less than a minute.

Breathing heavily and shaking from delayed shock, Kit watched as her rescuer patted the horse’s neck, making soothing noises and calming the frightened animal. With the same easy grace, the man dismounted, holding the lathered horse still and keeping a reassuring hand on the animal’s neck.

And then he lifted his head and turned his attention to her.

Oh my
, whispered Virtuous Angel.

Oh my, indeed.

Dark, wind-blown hair curled over his ears and coat collar. A day or two of beard growth stubbled his cheeks. His tanned skin hinted at a life spent outdoors. A caped greatcoat clung to his shoulders and then dropped straight to practically brush the ground, a blue jacket peeking out underneath. The wild chase had rumpled him, leaving his coat askew, chest heaving for air.

But it was his eyes—vividly green against his tanned cheeks and dark hair—that held her attention. They thrummed with life, promising a rogue’s tongue and unruly past.

A far cry from the pampered, fussy,
civilized
men who inhabited her life.

Uhmmm . . . suggestion,
murmured Wicked Angel.
When we abscond with a couple rings and the gig, I nominate we take
him
too.

Kit sighed in agreement.

Not helping,
Virtuous Angel muttered.
The last thing we need is a pretty-faced distraction right now.

But, oh, what a delicious distraction . . .

Who was he? And how had he happened to be along the private lane to Haldon Manor?

Though bedraggled, the fine-cut and fabric of his clothing spoke of refinement and money. Her mystery man cocked his head at her, continuing to pat the horse comfortingly, catching his breath.

“Good heavens,” Kit murmured. Though the word came out as more of a breathy sigh than an exclamation.

Not
exactly
the best beginning. She tried again.

“Thank you, sir.” She nodded at him, unable to tear her eyes free. His striking gaze pinned her to her seat.

“Are you . . . unharmed?” His low, cultured voice was still somewhat winded but confirmed him a gentleman.

“I am well. You have my deepest thanks.” Kit blinked. Surely her eyes were too wide, wide, wide.

She smoothed her hands against her skirts and used the excuse to cast a quick glance down at her clothing.

Drat.

Her cloak had swung around to her front and her bonnet was gone, torn from her head by the terrifying ride, no doubt. In her peripheral vision, she could see locks of hair dangling free from their pins. She actively resisted the urge to pat them back into place. Not that it would help, really.

She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked a fright.

And even with everything set to rights, she would still be wearing a second-hand brown wool dress—a lady of genteel birth fallen on hard times.

Which, currently, described her situation quite accurately.

How would this man react if he could see her as she looked at home in her own clothing, coolly confident? Well . . . at least as confident as she could be. And how
pathetic
she even thought such a thing.

He could never see her like that. It would risk too much. A man like him would never be welcome in her world.

He said nothing, but merely scrubbed an ungloved hand through his mussed hair, somehow rendering it just that much more tempting.

How could a man sprint onto the back of a runaway horse and come out looking even better than before? Not that she had seen him before, but still.

It wasn’t fair.

Kit generally considered herself immune to attractive men. Inoculated against them.

She had been raised with her handsome brother after all, and the men she associated with before landing at Haldon Manor were an urbane lot. Clever, sophisticated, moneyed.

In short, Kit Ashton was
not
the sort of woman to become infatuated with a handsome face.

So it came as no surprise that the gentlemen she had met so far at Haldon Manor scarcely turned her head. Jedediah Knight . . . uh, obviously no. Lord Linwood was not un-handsome, but his starched demeanor and cool reserve easily counteracted his good looks.

But
this
man . . .

He seemed elemental. Untamed. Dangerous.

The kind of man who would entice a woman to make poor life choices.

The kind of man her mother would have warned her to stay far, far away from.

What a
pity
she had never had a mother’s influence.

Wicked Angel snickered at the sarcasm.

Really, he needs to come along with us,
Wicked Angel urged.
He could be the scenery.

You are such a trial. We are not running away, remember? No matter how lovely the scenery,
Virtuous Angel chided.

Kit batted both thoughts away, but she did give in and straightened the cloak around her shoulders.

“I cannot imagine my fate had you not happened along.” She pasted on a bright smile.

Mmmm, perhaps a little too bright. Star-struck. She dimmed it a bit.

Tried again.

“How does one ever learn such a remarkable trick?” She gestured toward the horse.

He stared for a moment, giving her a chance to study the carved planes of his face.

Yes. Still handsome.

Drat him for making her
want
to flirt.

A lady’s companion did not flirt. Of
that
she was quite certain.

But he was just so irresistibly . . . male. So self-assured and capable in that romantic greatcoat which made his shoulders seem enormous.

And, heaven knew, she had
such
weakness for broad shoulders. They made her want to place things on them . . . like her hands or head or . . . her problems.

How wonderful would it be to have such strong shoulders as a sanctuary? A place to rest from her troubles.

But she had promised herself she would be good.

That
thought settled it. No flirting then.

He shrugged and said, “Happy to be of service,” while continuing to pat the horse’s neck.

Completely
ignoring her question.

Hmmm. Why avoid the question? Apparently, she wasn’t the only one with secrets.

A soft breeze tugged at Kit’s hair, implying that more of it was down that she had initially thought.

Blast.

Pausing, as if unsure, the man gave her a brief bow.

Kit blinked and felt her smile falter.

So was he dashing, handsome, secretive and . . . rude?

He had turned back to the horse, continuing to sooth the lathered beast. She studied the man’s dark curls for a moment and then her eyes met his as he raised his head again.

He didn’t look particularly haughty. More like harried.

Odd.

So perhaps not . . . rude? Dashing and handsome went without saying.

But still definitely secretive.

Her eyes narrowed. How to prod him?

“Miss Katherine Ashton, pleased to make your acquaintance.” She nodded politely. And then waited for him to do the same.

He said nothing. Did nothing. Just continued to stare at her with those rather unnerving green eyes.

He was clearly going to need more prodding.

She leaned forward, as if imparting a confidence. “In a polite conversation between a lady and a gentleman, this is the point where you, sir, introduce yourself.” She paused. Waiting.

Again, he said nothing and instead widened his eyes, as if her suggestion had startled him. As if the entire scene with her were overwhelming in some way.

The silence lingered a little too long.

“Let’s just say that I am a . . . friend,” he finally responded with a wary tip of his head.

“A friend?”

He shrugged.

“That is all the answer you will deign to give me?”

He raised an amused eyebrow, his face showing a sudden hint of mischievousness.

“I did just save your life. I should be allowed an eccentricity or two.”

Unbidden, Kit found herself matching his tone. “I believe
incivility
was the word you wanted there.”

“Excuse me?”

“An orange cravat or flower in your hat would be an eccentricity. A refusal to introduce oneself is something else entirely.”

“Ah.” His head reared back. “And you feel
incivility
fits the bill?”

It was Kit’s turn to shrug. Saucily mimicking his nonchalance.

He gave a wry grin. Though . . . it was so much more than just a grin, really.

He had one of those slow-burn smiles. The kind that started small and then grew wider and wider until
pow
! You forgot how to breathe.

Stupid, handsome man.

“After such a scolding, I can hardly introduce myself now, can I?” He added a cocky smirk to his ridiculously charming smile.

Both her eyebrows went up and she folded her hands in her lap. Mostly because they itched to swat that grin off his face. “You must forgive me, sir. I am not adept at following astonishing jumps in logic.”

Impossibly, his smile broadened, crinkling his eyes. “That was nicely done.”

“Excuse me?” It was Kit’s turn to look confused.

“All of it. The cutting remark, the self-righteous folding of your hands—”

“Self-righteous?! Gracious! And you call yourself a gentleman—”

He laughed good and loud at that. His head went back and his eyes disappeared.

And at that precise moment, Kit realized she was in serious, deep-water trouble.

Handsome, dashing,
charming
man.

With obvious secrets to hide.

Curse him.

Still chuckling, he gestured toward her. “Well, if I introduce myself now, it would smack of surrender. And I assure you, I never raise a white flag.”

He did not, however, refute her accusation of his un-gentleman-ness.

Interesting.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Well, I thank you for rescuing me,” she said at last, not wanting to seem churlish. “‘Twas most fortunate.”